My friend, Jerme


This one is about a friend that has recently come into my life. A perplexing being. I’m trying to understand him as a person, but am coming to terms with the fact that I may not ever entirely.

Existence 1

Image by Vincepal via Flickr

He’s brilliant, book smart.

Bright, but unglowing.


if he gets the Floor.


Not ugly, not beautiful.

No sadness, no joy.

He just exists,

and that’s enough

for HIM.


Thee single solemn soul

I’ve yet met

to NOT care to seek



Does he possess

a lesson to be learned?

Are our concerns

to love and be loved




A MINISCULE particle

of our existence

chalked up to

Human Nature?


He’s content

all alone.

No warm body

next to his

in BED.


I imagine “LONLINESS”

poetically described

to him—

He’d scratch his head,

cocking it slightly

to the side.


Life to him is





Perhaps this perception

isn’t hard & harsh.

Just maybe

It’s what we should all see.


For in his eyes it’s simple.



People, places, things—

All just NOUNS, to his being.


Looking at a still life,

What does he see?

“A bowl of oranges,” he says.

Are you fucking KIDDING me?


Maybe his intelligence

reaches outside my mind’s realm.

For his thoughts are


black and white.

Mine are a



swirling cloud.


He Loves Her

Image by mozzercork via Flickr

I wrote this one just last night. A sort of love poem.

He Loves her

in a way she’ll never

quite grasp.

He loves her


of the “typical” things:

Heedless household nagging,

chronic bitchiness when she’s ragging.

He loves her

no matter

how many times she

asks for validation

of their love.

She loves him

for reasons beyond

her imagination.

She loves him


of the “typical” things:

general male messiness,

clothes strewn about as he’ll undress.

She loves him

no matter

how many times

he has to


their love.

She loves him

as he loves her—

they love one another

for still loving

the other.

“Learn To Be Quiet”



Here’s a short writing by Franz Kafka, who was primarily a novelist/short story writer. I feel so strongly about what he has to say here, I feel like we all just need to take the time each day, each HOUR of every day to stop for a moment and really think about what life is all about. This writing makes me do just that.


Franz Kafka #2

You need not do anything.


Remain sitting at your table and listen.


You need not even listen, just wait.


You need not even wait,


just learn to be quiet, still and solitary.


And the world will freely offer itself to you unmasked.


It has no choice, it will roll in ecstasy at your feet.

“All You Who Sleep Tonight”

Vikram Seth - Cambridge - 27 November 2011

Image by Chris Boland via Flickr

This is a poem by Vikram Seth, a fantastic Indian poet/novelist, and so much more. This is a poem of his that I have treasured on many lonely nights.


All you who sleep tonight

Far from the ones you love,

No hand to left or right

And emptiness above –

Know that you aren’t alone

The whole world shares your tears,

Some for two nights or one,

And some for all their years.

The Window

Deutsch: Jalouisie. English: Venitian blind. F...

Image via Wikipedia

This poem is how I start almost every morning. I wrote this one about a week ago. 

The alarm clock blares.

My eyes stare

at the ceiling,


the morning time.

I abusively fondle

the clock.

The alarm stops.



I bolt.

Slowly I turn,

glaring at the closed window blinds.


The day. Outside. Is it…

Sunny? I wonder.

Warm? Doubtful.

Chilly? Windy?

FREEZING? Most likely.


I slowly peek out

between the blinds,

too fearful to open them

ALL the way.


Snow? Nope.


My head tilts back

as I sigh in relief.


NOW the blinds can come open

All the way.

Start-of-Winter sun slips in;

A warm and golden light

Floods the room.



Mother Earth and I begin


The battle

That is

Every morning.





Here’s a poem I just wrote yesterday actually. Rhyming isn’t usually something I do well, but I feel this one came flowing out pretty decent!


Until I was old enough

To have true insight,

My father was perfect,

Us together—just right.


Reflecting on it now,

My childhood was a lie.

It was Mother who was there for me,

Not Dad, when I cried.


Where was this man,

When I was too weak to stand?

It was Mother next to me,

Holding my hand.


The best memory I have

Is a crinkled photograph now.

My cousin and I,

Putting on a play for Father Cow.


We’re performing our hearts out,

Thinking he’s watching intently.

The basketball game on TV

Is more important evidently.


Dad is well-liked by his colleagues,

As they don’t know his true self.

“My life is an open book,” he says;

But it sits closed, on the shelf.


I’m grateful to have him in my life.

My dearest friend doesn’t have the pleasure

Of having a father present,

And falsified memories to treasure.

My love affair with leaves


I like to dabble in photography, and by “dabble” I mean take pictures that I think look cool–I have no credible knowledge on the subject. My boyfriend has a plethora of knowledge about it, but the most high-tech I get is turning on my macro setting. I also don’t like to alter Nature photographs–with my pictures, what you see is what I saw the moment I took them. I don’t stage objects for the pictures, and I don’t do any editing whatsoever, aside from the occasional cropping.

My love affair with leaves began many moons ago, when I was a child. I have always been fascinated with their detail. They continue to capture my interest today. Here are some of my favorite photos I’ve taken over the years.

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“Birth, life, and death–each took place on the hidden side of a leaf.”

-Toni Morrison